Times get tough, but Sophie, Ernie and Colfax abide
When times were hard, my mother used to tell me to whistle something happy and it would make everything better. She was a big fan of Disney’s 1940 animated film “Pinocchio,” which featured the song “Give a Little Whistle,” the source of her somewhat whimsical philosophy. Because life was always hard in our family, I whistled until my cheeks hurt, and although it didn’t improve anything, it did pass the time.
Now an e-mailer who is also an advocate of happiness has suggested that I write something cheerful today, thereby elevating the mood of those blindsided by a flagging economy. So for their sake, here’s a little something I hope will cause them to smile on their way to the unemployment office:
Meet Sophie. She’s my wife Cinelli’s dog, even though it was I, the big dog, who rescued her from a walk down the last mile, or however dogs might regard it. She is a pointer mix with black and white spots, long legs, an elongated nose and a perplexed expression. Funny looking but loyal; when my wife isn’t home, Sophie lies on a mat by the door, waiting for her return. Her position is so resolute that when I try to open the door to leave the house, she won’t stir, so I force it open with her on the mat and slide her to one side. She pays little attention to the maneuver.
Wherever Cinelli is, Sophie is, except for the bathroom, which is off limits. Sophie would gladly jump in the tub with her if she could. So would I. In the evening, she sits by Cinelli’s side of the couch. They watch “Jeopardy” together or a mind-challenging show on KCET. When I turn on “The Simpsons,” they both leave the room. Sometimes they’ll hang around for an animal show. Sophie really gets into it if it’s about dogs. She stands on the couch, tail wagging like a whip, and barks at the TV screen. The tail is lethal. It knocks glasses and vases off the coffee table and leaves stingray slashes on our legs.
When I correct Sophie, she glares, resenting my status as alpha male. I am the one who determines when she goes in or out, and occasionally I order her about, but other than that I am not the macho type.
If you watch shows that feature gorillas or grizzlies, you know that in the animal world, the dominant male is large and powerful. I am short, old and overweight. Also, I wear John Lennon glasses and carry designer checks. What kind of alpha male carries checks adorned with butterflies? Real men favor lions mating on the Masai Mara, not an insect fluttering like Tinker Bell through the periwinkles. That does not fulfill the raging bull image of the guy in charge.
But I have a friend who is in charge. That would be Ernie the cat, otherwise known as Ernie the Assassin. Ernie is without a doubt the capo dei capi of our household. He is to us what Salvatore Lo Piccolo was to the Mafia. When Ernie wants to walk across your head, Ernie walks across your head. When he wants to sit in the middle of the dining room table drinking water from a vase of flowers, he drinks the water.
The most obvious demonstration of his authority arises when, out of annoyance or to establish who’s in charge, Ernie leaps on Sophie and digs in his claws. Sophie runs yelping through the house with Ernie on her back until someone dislodges him.
The dog is about 6 inches taller than the cat and outweighs him by 40 pounds, but Ernie is the boss of bosses and we all know it.
It doesn’t bother me that Ernie is the alpha male. He lived on the hard streets of Sacramento until rescued by our daughter, the Cat Lady, who turned him over to us. If Ernie were human, he would be one of the boys, while I am far more reclusive in my attitudes. I do not hang with the guys, play poker, drink beer or think that explosive bodily noises are particularly humorous.
An additional problem for Sophie is a new kitten in the house named Colfax. She is a smaller clone of Ernie, jet black except for a spot of white under her chin and full of attitude. She weighs barely 2 pounds and has been in the house only a few weeks, but already she can force Sophie into a corner, cowering.
I fear that the day will come when both cats, in perfect coordination, will leap simultaneously upon Sophie’s back. She will go howling out the door, down Topanga Canyon Boulevard, east on the 101, south on the 405, west on the 10, north on PCH and north again into the canyon, whimpering.
Life is hell for our poor, funny-looking little dog, but she has to go through it the same way we did when hard times were upon us. It will get better. Tomorrow I’ll teach her to whistle.
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almtz13@aol.com
